Devil's Pocket

by John Dixon

  Agbeko hooah-ed, Tex shrugged, and they entered into a huge, well-lit room with mirrored walls and benches and a warm-up area covered in wrestling mats. Most of the teams were already there, and at the front of the room, people dressed like Kruger appeared to be readying a scale, over which hung an electronic display currently reading 0.00.

  On the warm-up mat, a tall, lanky Asian drove a succession of fast roundhouse kicks into a blue foam shield—whap-whap-whap-whap!—all with the lead leg, then hitched his hips and pounded a stiff rear-leg kick into the target. Impressive speed and power. Like many kickers, however, the guy leaned back too far and stayed in front of his target. Jam the kicks and bull forward, Carl thought, but he couldn’t tell if the guy was a big middleweight or a small heavyweight.

  Other than the locker room’s bright lights, obvious newness, and absence of bad smells, this was a scene very familiar to Carl. Fighters, mostly stripped to the waist, stood in small groups. Some whispered cagily, like thieves; others laughed and shoved, like drunken sailors on shore leave; others listened to trainers, slipping mock attacks or throwing light punches at outstretched hands, using every second for some sort of preparation. All of them, no matter what their outward demeanor, glanced around, sorting the other fighters, weighing them with their eyes and guessing at potential opponents.

  Some were already familiar.

  He saw Romeo but no Juliet. Couldn’t blame the guy for not bringing her into a room of half-naked guys built like heavily scarred gymnasts.

  Romeo looked calm. He stood alone, his eyes drifting over the others but giving nothing away. A middleweight, Carl was sure of that. A few inches taller than Carl. Big hands, but not as big as Carl’s, maybe a puncher, maybe not. Wide shoulders but not overblown, like a weight lifter’s. Might be quick. He had the dark features of a handsome Mexican fighter: an inch of black hair atop his head; high cheekbones; dark eyes set close to a hooked nose slightly crooked from past battles; with a scar—what looked like the work of a knife—slicing a pale diagonal from his ribs across his six-pack abs. From boxing, Carl knew Mexicans to be tough as nails, aggressive guys with good chins and all the heart in the world. No quit in their bones. Punchers, most of them, but even the guys with cupcake hands came at you, determined to out-throw and out-tough you, every last one of them prouder to be Mexican than Carl had ever been to be anything. It was strange to Carl, back in the States, hearing white guys badmouth Mexicans, treat them like they were stupid or inferior or something. The majority of Mexican guys Carl had known were hardworking and smart—not to mention bilingual, unlike their naysayers—and most of them, even hard-core criminals he’d known in juvie, lived by a code that gave sense and something approaching honor to their actions.

  This guy Romeo, the way he stood, kind of loose, with his toes pointed out to the sides, Carl thought he was more than a boxer. Probably a kicker, too.

  Up front, one of the officials near the scale called, “Fighter 47.”

  There was a commotion near the front, fighters moving aside, and Carl saw Zurkistan’s heavyweight, still decked out in his parka and ski mask, step onto the scale.

  What was with this guy, still dragging around in his snow gear?

  Baca’s voice echoed in Carl’s mind: Fighter 47 does not care about heat or cold. . . .

  Tex whistled. “Boy’s got shoulders like a trailer . . . and I mean a double-wide.”

  He is impervious to both pain and comfort. Suffering is nothing to him. He lives only to fight. . . .

  The display over the scale flashed three times, then showed 277 in bright red.

  Two hundred and seventy-seven pounds? The guy was what . . . five-ten, tops? He was big, sure—huge, even—but 277? Guy must have some dense muscle.

  Agbeko stared, chin elevated, eyes serious.

  “Woo-ee, buddy,” Tex said, slapping Agbeko’s arm. “Better you than me.”

  “Muscle-bound guy like that,” Carl said, feigning more confidence than he felt, “just stick and move, and you’ll cut him to ribbons.” But coming off the scale and swaggering toward the opposite side of the room, Fighter 47, despite his massive bulk, looked loose and fluid, not muscle-bound at all.

  Tex laughed. “Check out the ballerina.”

  Over on the mat, the Asian guy—a middleweight, Carl was almost certain now—stood with his leg high in the air, frozen like a photo of someone throwing a powerful side kick at the ceiling. Not so much as a quiver. Then, using one arm, he drew the outstretched leg—still fully extended in its frozen kick—inward until his knee was flush to his ear, and started hopping up and down.

  “Reminds me of my ex-wife,” Tex said, and brayed laughter. Teams turned, looked.

  “Keep it down,” Carl said.

  Tex rolled his eyes and gave a sarcastic salute.

  Agbeko reached for him, but Tex dipped away and put up his fists. “Hands off.”

  Great, Carl thought. He’d been worried about Tex getting into it with some other team. Now he was ready to pop Agbeko. “Save it,” Carl said, using the command voice Stark had taught him, not a bark—alphas never bark, Stark told him—but a low, sharp burst, a six-inch punch of a command. Tex and Agbeko stepped apart.

  “Y’all need to loosen up your skirts,” Tex said. “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” Carl said. Weigh in and get out, he thought, and had to swallow, imagining the smell of fried onions and mushrooms and hot peppers, a cheesesteak oozing grease and sauce, its soggy weight in his hands. . . .

  Up front, the men in suits continued the weigh-ins. Teams pressed forward. Despite all that had happened and all that was about to happen, despite his concerns over the cesti, the great stakes, and the daunting task that awaited him after the tournament, Carl felt a familiar lilt in his heart. This was it. The weigh-in. His opponent was somewhere in this room. . . .

  Fighter after fighter stepped onto the scale, the administrators calling numbers that made no sense—41, 38, 35—until Carl realized they were summoning the heavyweights in descending order.

  When they called Fighter 32, the giant with the misshapen head climbed shirtless onto the scale, looking like he could step straight into the Eagles’ offensive line. Easily seven feet tall with skin as bright as Siberian snow, he spread his arms wide, the guy’s reach long even for his great height, and stood there nodding, his brow low and heavy, his jaw wide, the thick lips twisted into a brutal smile. The overhead display registered 341, and Fighter 32 flexed, sneering at the crowd. That’s when Carl spotted the red triangle tattooed on his shoulder.

  Recognition shuddered through him. Stark had told him about this guy—or rather about the triangle, which meant he’d won the triple threat of underground fighting: Tokyo, Marseilles, and Rio de Janeiro.

  “Better you than me, Agbeko,” Tex said again, and Carl told him to shut up. His gut had tightened into a fist. Tex had a point. . . .

  Another heavyweight stepped onto the scale, this one—

  “Hey, man, you a middleweight, huh?” someone said, nudging Carl’s shoulder, and he turned to find Fighter 13, the tall loudmouth with the skyline of New York shaved into the back of his head, staring down at him with a cocky grin full of gold teeth. “Me, too.”

  Beside him, a short, muscular fighter flashed his own grill of gold teeth. His hair was cut close, almost shaved to the skin, but he was making a show of brushing it anyway.

  Carl read their grins and posture. “All right,” he said, and turned away.

  “My man here,” New York said, “he thought you was a lightweight.”

  “Wish he was,” the guy with the brush said. “Easy work.”

  Carl said nothing. The tall guy nudged him again.

  “You ready? This is the real deal right here, winner take all, you know what I’m saying?”

  Carl watched the front of the room, where a huge kid with a red flattop and biceps like freckled cannonballs flexed beneath the red display of 264.

  Another nudge. Harder. Almost a push.

  “Y
o, man. No disrespect, but I gotta tell you,” the tall guy said, pausing to fake a laugh. “You don’t look like a fighter. You know what I’m saying?”

  Another shove, this one hard enough to turn Carl a little. He faced the guy. “We’ll see.”

  The shorter kid showed his gold teeth again and raised his palms, feigning surprise. It was a skit Carl had seen before. Many times.

  The tall guy shrugged. “Maybe you’re gooder than you look.” He put his hand on Carl’s shoulder, the guy’s reach very long. “Maybe you’re gooder than I think.”

  This really cracked up the short guy.

  Tex said something, but Carl shook his head, and surprisingly, Tex backed off.

  “Fighter 20,” the organizer called, and Agbeko headed toward the front.

  The tall guy nudged his friend now, pretending to be serious and doing a purposefully crappy job of it. “Yo, man, yo. Maybe he gooder than he look, right?”

  “Too pretty to be a champion,” the short guy said.

  The tall guy put his arm around Carl. “I like you, man. You funny.”

  Feeling heat in his face, Carl shrugged off the arm.

  At the front of the room, Agbeko weighed in at two hundred and seventy on the dot, a good weight for him.

  Now the smaller guy pushed Carl’s arm. “I got to tell you, yo. My man right here?” He hooked a thumb toward the tall kid and raised his brows, still grinning that stupid golden grin, and shook his head, the same dumb act Carl had seen in city gyms a hundred times. Part of the game. Thugs trying to psych you out, all loud, lots of laughter, always the challenge, acting friendly but calling you out, too, and Carl had found it best over the years to just hunker down and wait, let the storm of stupidity pass, and then settle it in the ring.

  The short guy slapped Carl’s shoulder again. “He undefeated, son. You hear me? Undefeated.”

  Another slap, and Carl felt a grin coming onto his own face, the ache in his knuckles pulsing rhythmically like a sounding alarm . . . a smoke alarm . . . and his nostrils filled with ash.

  The short guy rattled on, talking about how his buddy knocked everybody out, everybody—“You hear me, son?”—and moved to give Carl another cuff, but this time, Carl batted it away.

  Time dilated.

  The short guy sneered in slow motion, and the tall guy stepped in, saying, “What’s up? What’s up?” and reaching for Carl, who slipped the hand and stepped in with a pop of his shoulder, bumping the tall guy into the short guy. At the same time, Carl registered their team heavyweight, hurrying through the crowd, snarling—and Carl, seeing this guy had gold teeth, too, laughed aloud.

  “You guys all have the same dentist or what?” Carl said, and brought up his fists.

  But then, as if by magic, Kruger appeared, pulling Carl away with a quick apology to the other team’s steward, who’d materialized at exactly the same moment.

  Disappointment flooded Carl—he ached to thump them—but Kruger led him across the room. Tex followed, laughing.

  “We mustn’t have any of that,” Kruger said. “The Few tolerate no violence outside the ring.”

  “Yeah?” Carl said. “They don’t want to miss the show, huh?”

  Then the organizer called, “Fighter 19,” taking Carl by surprise. They hadn’t even finished weighing the heavies yet. Whatever.

  He peeled off his shirt, handed it to Tex, and headed for the front of the room.

  “Fighter 19?” the organizer asked.

  Carl nodded, kicking off his shoes. He pulled off his socks, dropped his pants to the floor, let out the superstitious exhale of every guy who’s ever sweated making weight, and stepped onto the scale in his underwear. The display flashed three times and registered 199.9.

  When he came off the scale, Tex was there, handing him his shirt and grinning like a maniac. “What was that you were saying about saving it for the ring, boss?”

  TEN

  CARL OPENED HIS EYES. He was sitting on the still-made bed. His eyes flicked to the bedside clock.

  1:11.

  He had “slept” for exactly an hour, and no surprise. Setting a mental alarm clock accurate to the minute was a nice convenience, but it was nothing compared to what his mind and body did with the single hour of deep rest he needed each day.

  After only sixty minutes of shutdown time—his unconscious state more closely resembled meditation than sleep—he felt better rested and more mentally reconstructed than he had after eight hours of pre-chip sleep. Dr. Vispera had done more than implanted a chip in his head. He’d modified Carl’s blood and dumped thousands of tiny chips into his bloodstream, and these had implanted throughout his body, connecting its various systems to the master chip in his brain. As much as Carl disliked the thought of this invasive technology, as much as he resented being used as a lab rat, he very much appreciated needing only an hour’s rest per night.

  Whenever he needed rest, he simply slowed his breathing and heart rate, lowering them until his heart beat only a few times a minute and his breathing practically stopped.

  His stomach growled.

  The kitchen is open around the clock, Kruger’s voice echoed in his head.

  The silver-haired steward hadn’t lied about the chefs’ excellence. The cheesesteak had been awesome. Sitting there, Carl rewound the memory, savoring the greasy meat and cheese, the fried onions and mushrooms, the sweet sauce, and the heat of the chopped-up cherry peppers.

  Full menu at any hour, Kruger had said. Whatever you like.

  Another cheesesteak, that’s what he would like . . . maybe even two or three.

  He swept the little box from atop the nightstand, but his thumb hovered over the green call button as another voice came into his head. Not Kruger’s this time, but that of his old trainer, Arthur James. . . .

  Stay hungry, son. Full belly, empty heart.

  He remembered standing in the ring with the old man, remembered Arthur throwing a slow jab, bringing it back low. Full man gets lazy and gets countered. But a hungry man . . . He straightened, whipped out a jab, and brought it straight back to his face. He snatches food out of your mouth and brings it straight back to his.

  Carl tossed the box back onto the nightstand. All right, Arthur, all right. As usual, his old trainer was right. Suffering, not cheesesteaks, built heart. He couldn’t let comfort make him soft.

  A cheesesteak sure would be good, though. . . .

  His stomach growled again, weighing in on the debate. Using the chip, he could slow his heart, dim pain, or dull his sense of heat or cold, but he remained at the mercy of hunger.

  Well, he just had to distract himself.

  He rose and went to the window, drew the curtain aside, and looked out into the arena. Torches flickered only dimly along the walls, but he could make out people here and there—a couple on the bleachers, someone on the track, shuffling along. No one in the octagon.

  He needed to feel the ring, to test it. He’d never fought in a cage before. Would the mesh have a spring to it, like ring ropes?

  Time to find out.

  Beyond his door, the common room was silent. No television, no laughter, no talking.

  He changed into the black warm-up suit with a phoenix on the chest and a big red 19 on the back.

  The common room was empty . . . and spotless. When he’d gone to bed, the place was trashed—dirty plates and bowls, empty soda cans, chip bags, and candy wrappers everywhere. All gone now. At some point, a cleaning team had slipped in and silently tidied the room.

  An oddly creepy moment. The sense of an invisible army working within the walls. . . .

  Time to leave. Take a walk, have a look.

  He crossed the room and opened the door and stepped from the suite into the hallway. Everything dim and quiet at this late hour. A light sweetness in the air, less floral now, just a subtle richness that reminded him of Atlantic City casinos where the Philly ham-and-eggers fought. Something else in the air, too, a sense of collective anticipation—that strange and pervasive pr
efight restlessness that haunted cheap hotels during long nights on the road, the next day’s fight everywhere and nowhere, everywhere and nowhere. This place practically vibrated with it.

  That’s not the place, he told himself. That’s you.

  He walked down the hall, passing rooms of those he would fight. Behind some doors, parties raged. Thumping music, shouting, laughter. Most rooms, however, were silent—and no surprise there. These fighters weren’t high school athletes on a fun and exciting trip; they were hardened warriors arrived at the all-or-nothing moment of their lives. Everything on the line.

  He turned the corner and stopped. Midway down the corridor, someone—and Carl recognized him by his height and black hair as Romeo—was leaning into one of the doors marked with a big red X.

  Juliet was nowhere in sight.

  Romeo pressed the door with one hand and held the other against the ID pad. Not his thumb, though, Carl saw, tightening his focus, but the back of his hand.

  A flash of green, a light pop, and the door opened.

  Romeo turned his head, checking the hall.

  Carl dipped out of sight.

  When he peeked again, he saw Romeo disappearing into the forbidden space. The door with the red X slid shut with a soft click, and the hall was empty—as if nothing had happened.

  What was Romeo doing?

  None of your business, Carl told himself. Kid pokes around and gets burned, that’s his problem. Now vanish before somebody finds you standing here like a lookout.

  Reaching the elevator, he pressed the call button, and the doors slid silently open. He started to press the button for level one, the arena, but then stabbed number three instead. He wanted to say hi to someone before heading to the octagon.

  “Hello, Theogenes,” he said five minutes later, staring up into the battered bronze face.

  The hall was dim and empty now, but a cone of brighter light shone down on the massive statue, magnifying the definition of the great bronze muscles and casting the dark eyes into exaggerated shadow.

  Again Carl experienced the strong connection he’d felt when he’d first seen the statue. How many times did they call you to the ring? he wondered, staring into the shadowy eyes.